Digging Deep (Part 1 of 2)

I see you came back to the compost pile. Again. Against most odds, I’d say. How long can a person wait? How many times do you check back, to see if someone has unearthed something of interest? With no promise that it will be worth looking at in the first place?

You will notice my shovel propped up by the pile and I want to explain why it’s not doing anything yet. This is your disclaimer prior to the excavation.

 I did try to dig it a while ago. In fact, I returned every couple months over the last year; hoping the experiences I’d tossed into that heap the last five years had transformed into stories I could share. Experiences that could be told in fullness. Stories that had beginnings, middles and ends. Inspiring stories! Experiences I recognized and understood.

But, to be honest, what I found was a little dank, kind of stinky and something you only look at through squinted eyes.

These experiences were not stories yet. They were rinds and shells. Some had hard memories dangling from them. Beginnings were separated from middles, and endings had burrowed deeper into the pile. Some even looked like little corpses. Sorry. But that’s what I thought. There wasn’t a single sign of a meaningful plot twist. Most concerning, however, was the lack of character development I sensed.

So I’d push them a bit deeper into the dark. Maybe next week, I’d say. Maybe in the Spring. Another winter passed. Flip. Wait. Flip. As if nothing could be shared about a single thing, until they were fully formed. Until resolutions had been arrived at, until story arcs had reached their conclusions. I have no illusions of being a hero in any of these stories, but would have been content with being someone who occasionally had a good hunch, or said something witty. For a while there, I could offer neither.

Looking back I see I  could have used some companionship during this time – these months that stretched into years. The kind of company I only experience when I share stories. But I was stubborn as that slow-cooking heap of half-baked experiences. I too, was dug in and half way there.

Let’s be honest. Who wants to share times when their life looks and feels like a dumb heap of story bones? Certainly, I did not. I was not particularly pleased with my fragments. My mushy parts. I  prefer myself fully formed. I needed some solid character development to flaunt. Nothing. I had nothing.

But here’s the thing. I’m getting weary of the wait.  I miss my story friends. Plus, maybe there is something to be said for peering into the darkness in good company? You could be my good company. I’ve enjoyed that so many times in the past.

I’m not holding out for the experiences to turn into polished stories anymore. I’m going to unearth them (at this point, it’s almost an exhuming) one by one and share their parts. Just as they were. I’ll let the beginnings bolt from the starting line, and let the middles be middling. Endings are hardest. The ones that refuse to accept any kind of pre-baked meaning.  I am determined to give them time on the page too.

Maybe the parts have their own stories to tell. Just because. And perhaps, just perhaps, I don’t have to be fully cooked myself to share them. 

___________________

Deep Breath.

Camera pans to shovel. Gloved hands grip shovel. Slow movement of both to heap of steaming organic matter.

 Zoom in.

{Shovel cuts deep into the steaming pile. A cloud of green mist escapes the opening}

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